It Sings Through The Senses.

It's frightening, losing your life. Everything you ever thought was important just melts away. The complex value systems, the vehicles for outrage, the impassioned striving for a better world, all that happens to no one. What dies is what believes it is not whole. What goes is the notion that any of the morals or outrage or striving is the "why" of being; what drops away is the need for any "why". It is the seeker that dies, although seeking can still arise, but perhaps not in the context of the search for some massive existential purpose. There is still seeking, and longing, and circumstances that require apparent actions that seem opposed to this message, such as raising your children to be constructive citizens, with a drive to fulfill their potential. But who is all this happening to? When does it happen? To no one, and not in time. It is shining, singing being, speaking through the senses and thoughts and feelings, observing itself with duality, but it is only and ever being, playing the game of living. There need be no one taking it all so seriously, for what is being taken seriously is an illusion, the illusion of a separate self. What can happen, can happen unfettered by this funny idea of you. Being is a luscious thing, and when there is no one taking possession of it, boxing it in, making it a certain way according to some arcane recipe, the intensity of being is fully there, you are it, it is you. But pretending to be someone is not a choice, nor is to drop it. What wants to drop it is what is dropped. But it could drop away at any time. In fact, it often seems that when everything is at its most hopeless, and the mind despairs of ever gaining some kind of spiritual awakening, that is "when" it happens. It doesn't matter if it happens or not. Even the most separate, boxed-in individual is oneness, being boxed-in.